


The Perfect Christmas

by LouRandom



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Presents, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Romance, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 08:31:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17342066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouRandom/pseuds/LouRandom
Summary: “I’ve found that Christmas decorations and the overall process of preparing for the holiday tend to brighten people’s mood and result in great stress relief as Christmas Day approaches,” Connor-the-Google-Droid stated matter-of-factly. He paused then, an odd expression, almost that of vulnerability, marring his features. “And I wanted to make you more… to make you happier.”And again, that feeling in Hank’s chest, which seemed to intensify the longer Connor continued staying in his home for lack of proper living quarters. Hank couldn’t help but hope, though, that Connormaybe staying with him because hewishesto.“How many times did I tell you my happiness isn’t your priority?”“Exactly 184 times,” Connor reported. “And once again—Iwantit to be.”





	The Perfect Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lopsided_Whiskey_Grin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lopsided_Whiskey_Grin/gifts).



> My Secret Santa gift for [Lopsided_Whiskey_Grin ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lopsided_Whiskey_Grin/profile) =) A belated Merry Christmas to everyone and Merry Christmas to those who celebrate the Orthodox one =) Have some fluff and and fluff and more fluff.
> 
> Did I mention, uh, fluff?

* * *

Hank hadn’t had a truly _happy_ Christmas for the past three years.

Any celebrations right after The Accident were out of the question and the following year marked the raging shitshow that was The Divorce and his whole life after that consisted of nothing but a flurry of work, drink, the occasional game of Russian Roulette and frequent bouts of coma-like alcohol-induced states of Passed Out In Oblivion.

Honestly, he wasn’t expecting Christmas—or his life for that matter—to be any different this year. Leave it to the overeager android sent by CyberLife to aid Android Jesus in a revolution, turn Hank’s perception of androids upside fucking down and give him—it felt weird and almost wrong, sort of _blasphemy_ to say it, really— _a reason to live._

So here Hank was, returning from work a few days before Christmas to see Connor cross-legged on the floor in front of a medium-sized Christmas tree he’d managed to acquire fuck knows where propped next to the TV. A huge box of decorations sat next to Connor, whose frown resonated with the yellow of his LED. He didn’t seem to notice Hank’s arrival, nor did he react as Hank took off his boots and jacket, greeting an excited Sumo, and approached Connor, slow. Tentative.

And a tiny bit amused.

“Connor?”

The android blinked.

“Hank,” he said, “I don’t know what to do. I’ve reviewed 266 variations of Christmas decorations but they all seem to be equally applicable for creating a comfortable, cozy atmosphere.” He looked at Hank, signs of frustration marring his usually perfectly composed face. “I… wanted it to be a surprise but I wasn’t sure what you’d like and I… lost track of time.”

Hank couldn’t help but let a chuckle escape at this. There was probably a latent MISSION FAILED message flashing somewhere in Connor’s internal HUD. Granted, he’d finally started taking the occasional failure in stride, probably taking a page out of Hank’s autobiographic book, _The Art of Giving Zero Fucks._

“Come on, Connor,” Hank said, the argument he wants to use sounding weak even to him, “you didn’t have to do all this. There hasn’t been a real Christmas in here for years.” Hank remembered the last one very well; Cole had toppled nearly everything trying out his new scooter, Sumo chasing him and doubling the chaos.

Good times.

“That’s exactly the point! I’ve found that Christmas decorations and the overall process of preparing for the holiday tend to brighten people’s mood and result in great stress relief as Christmas Day approaches,” Connor-the-Google-Droid stated matter-of-factly. He paused then, an odd expression, almost that of vulnerability, marring his features. “And I wanted to make you more… happy.”

And again, that feeling in Hank’s chest, which seemed to intensify the longer Connor continued staying in his home for lack of proper living quarters. Hank couldn’t help but hope, though, that Connor may be staying with him because he _wishes_ to.

“How many times did I tell you my happiness isn’t your priority?”

“Exactly 184 times,” Connor reported. “And once again—I _want_ it to be.”

And really, Hank really shouldn’t have been surprised; definitive laws on android jobs were to be passed mid-January, and with whatever integration process followed, Connor would most likely be able to return back to work at the precinct no earlier than February. He ached for something—anything—to do other than running off to Jericho at odd times of night and day to help with post-revolutionary android integration, be it cleaning, cooking, the somewhat illegal remote assistance with those of Hank’s cases that benefited from instantaneous information gathering and superior computing capabilities. Or, as it were, taking care of Christmas decorations.

For some reason, the sentiment made something in Hank’s chest ache—not necessarily in a bad way, but with a sense of bittersweet longing. He sat next to Connor in the floor, looking over the box with the Christmas lights, all kinds of toys and trinkets which would make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside some long time ago.

“Well I’m glad you finally decided to spend your money on _something_ , at least. Like I said you _can_.”

Connor looked away; at these moments, Hank was sure Connor would blush, if he had the capability.

“I didn’t use the money from your account, because it’s not strictly _mine_ ,” Connor explained for what was probably the hundredth time. “I got it from a… freelance job I have, actually.”

Despite whatever program compelled Connor to be in a constant state of activity and exploration, he loathed doing anything that entailed any expenses on Hank’s part. Like clothes shopping. The movies. Goddamn museums because of course Hank had noticed Connor’s developing affinity for pieces of visual art. Trying out that new thirium-based alcohol-like beverage for androids (“How can I hope to limit you drinking, Lieutenant, if I consume basically the same substance?”)

Hank still managed to talk him into some of those, at times, slowly relearning himself how to have fun outside of a seedy bar and sans a beer bottle.

“And what _is_ this new gig of yours?” Hank asked, intrigued.

“I… well. I was trying out. Drawing? Designing. 3D modeling,” Connor rambled. Markus’ influence, no doubt. “All three. And I acquired a sort of apprenticeship to an architect for a time being. It’s… intensely satisfying.”

“Hmm.” Hank paused, considering his partner. “And you sure you want to return to the DPD?” he asked, trying for an air of flippancy.

The answer might have a bit too obvious since Hank was addressing the android currently wearing Hank’s old police academy hoodie (never getting out of it, actually), had developed a habit of bemoaning the lack of real police work on almost a daily basis and was literally the self-appointed responsible drafter of the special legislation for androids up for integration into law enforcement. Unsurprisingly, Connor simply rolled his eyes (when had he picked _that_ up?) and said,

“As an activity meant to stimulate your mental capabilities in face of your apparent retrograde amnesia, you will help me choose the appropriate scheme for Christmas decorations, won’t you, Hank?”

“How in hell did I end up like this?” Hank huffed. “Bossed around in my own _house_.”

“Mildly directed, more like,” Connor said.

“Uh-huh.”

Sumo chose this moment to jump onto Hank’s lap, carrying a small Christmas toy in his teeth, dropping it at Hank’s knees.

“See, Hank?” Connor says pointedly. “Even Sumo agrees you should help me with the decorations.” As if in genuine agreement, Sumo licks all over Hank’s face in a slobbery display of affection, making both him and Connor laugh.

There was no escaping from it, Hank realized. And in fact, looking into the warm brown of Connor’s eyes, full of excitement, amusement and that peculiar kind of tenderness Connor seemed to reserve only for him—Hank wasn’t sure he wanted to.

*

In fact, decorating proved to be less of a depressingly nostalgic activity, like Hank had expected, and more of a startling new adventure as Connor discovered the beauty of Christmas lights for the first time—and getting tangled in them— as well the various treats and symbols associated with Christmas. Hank tells him tales of Santa Claus and his minions in the evenings, getting the weird impression of being with a literal kid at these moments.

“I would like to see a _real_ reindeer someday!” Connor said one evening, eyes positively glowing, and Hank makes a note to take him to a forest or other one of these days.

Connor also discovers the wide array of wacky Christmas traditions, reacting differently to each one. Hank told him about mistletoe, which was conspicuously missing from the delivery box, making Connor go into Think-Mode for a long moment and his LED flash yellow. A long silence settled and Connor looked as if he wanted to say more, unnecessary breath drawn, lips parted, gaze focused on Hank’s face. Hank found his heart beating a bit faster and back came the treacherous voice in his head that told him helpfully that Connor looked perfect for a kiss at that moment.

He ignored it.

“Con?”

“It’s an intriguing concept,” Connor said, snapping out of his reverie. He decided on suddenly throwing heaps of tinsel Hank’s way, which they then proceeded to hang all over the house as a finishing touch.

“Done,” Hank declared proudly, ruffling Connor’s hair lightly—a habit he’d developed recently and that Connor seemed to like. The android smiled, giving Hank a quick tight hug and scuttling to the kitchen to make dinner.

Hank noticed with a small hint of surprise that he was, in fact, in a much better mood, that he hadn’t thought about killing himself once today–and why would he, when Christmas was right around the corner, he was actually going to spend it out of an alcohol-induced haze and with his excitable android roommate had yet to celebrate it for the first time.

 _And_ receive a gift. What exactly? Hank still had no idea.

Yet with the way Connor looked at him all through dinner, rambling about the Christmas classic movies he wanted to watch and where he and Hank could venture on Christmas holidays, warm eyes conveying endless gratitude and childlike joy—Hank knew it would have to be perfect.

*

Choosing a gift turned out to be more difficult than Hank had expected: he’d scrambled for days through little street shops and department stores and themed festivals to find something suitable for Connor—to no avail. Christmas was on a Saturday this year, and on Christmas Eve, Hank found himself navigating through waves upon waves of equally desperate customers, which now consisted of not only humans but androids as well, and the inexperience of the latter contributed to the chaos of it all.

With Hank’s luck—or lack thereof—and an unfortunate lack of creativity (how _the hell_ had he handled Christmas shopping before?), he’d been close to settling on _passable_ rather than _perfect_ at this point. That is, until he’d found himself passing a dilapidated art shop and the most obvious idea hit him squarely in the face.

He made a sharp turn towards Eastside Detroit, where a couple of chaps he knew might be able to give him some advice.

*

Hank couldn’t help being a little bit nervous as Connor was unwrapping his First Ever Gift with an apprehensive expression. The box was, well, enormous and contained—a painting kit. Oils and acrylics and watercolors. A small box of high-quality colored pencils, too. And on top of it all was Carl’s personal recommendation once Hank had shown up on the man’s doorstep, desperate for gifting advice – a book detailing different art techniques and styles, the millennia-old history of art written intricately on stylized pages, with an afterword written on the back cover by Carl himself. In his flawless cursive was a short note about Carl’s experience with android artistic expression—and a good wish for Connor in his creative pursuits. The android in question had stood speechless for a few seconds, looking downright fucking precious, LED flicking fast between yellow and blue, and then Hank had an armful of Connor, strong arms hugging him tightly and soft brown locks buried in the curve of his neck.

“Thank you, I—” Connor’s voice modulator seemed to be glitching. Was he crying?

Jesus, don’t let him be _crying_.

“You have no idea how much this means to me.”

And that goddamn tone, soft with the burgeoning of tears, full gratitude and wonder is enough to send Hank plummeting once more through the land of Never Gonna Happen via the highway of Impossible Dreams. It’s easy to imagine them spending every Christmas together from now on, shared fun and joy between the two of them, and Sumo. It’s easy to imagine this small, ideal family—except common sense kicks in with a reality check. Washed up alcoholic with a fuckton of issues holding on to the non-existent hope of Adonis incarnate choosing to spend his days, _years_ of newfound, to-be-eternal life with a fuckup like him.

Laughable.

“Yeah, yeah, stop getting sappy on me, come on,” Hank is careful to smile through it all and, for fear of letting the veneer break, pulls away and ruffles Connor’s hair. At arm’s length. Keep a distance. Don’t let yourself fall.

Connor’s face is a curious mix of excitement and hesitation, and he tentatively picks up a carefully wrapped up gift of his own and offers it to Hank. Under the wrap is a special edition of _I, Robot_ (which Hank had mentioned had been one of his favorites growing up) that already had him smiling like an idiot and his grin only widened as he got to the two Knights of the Black Death tickets for their upcoming New Year’s show (which Hank had absolutely no idea how Connor had obtained this goddamn late), and to top it all, because it honestly caught Hank by a surprise, was—

“A guitar pick?”

Connor suddenly took particular interest in analyzing the floor. A bit flustered.

“I, uh,” Connor said, “saw a broken guitar in the garage and thought. Maybe. I could replace it. So.”

He pointed with his right hand to the general direction of the garage and with his left wiped away the stray tears that still managed to escape his eyes.

And Hank, who’d gotten nothing but bare formal pleasantries for Christmas the past couple of years and who’d just about given up on any other sources of entertainment other than booze and bars, could only stand there and stare, cheeks hurting from all the excess grinning.

“You got me a guitar.”

“That’s what I said.” Connor tilted his head to the side. “Would you play something for me?”

Hank couldn’t find it in himself to say no even if he wanted to.

*

A lot of paint splatters, a few acoustic Christmas songs and one delicious lunch later, Hank and Connor ended up outside, caught in The Snow Fight of Doom.

The ‘doom’ part pertained to Hank, specifically, who’d been sure he could stand his own against Connor until he apparently mortally insulted the android by commenting on him being too soft. Then Connor pulled out the big guns—and big snowballs.

After eight extra-large snowballs hit Hank, _hard_ , in quick succession and he raised his hands in defeat.

“For fuck’s sake, I give up!” he shouted, shaking from laughter now, rather than the cold. Hank uttered a surprised “Oof” Connor slammed into him, both of them tumbling into a snowdrift. Connor’s face shone with laughter, and Hank found himself thinking he’d seldom seen anything more beautiful.

The thought was laced with pain, however, as Hank realized yet again—this was something he couldn’t have. Someone he didn’t deserve. The smile and hazel eyes gleaming with joy—it was all meant for somebody else. Or at least a past, more put together version of Hank, which died roughly three years ago and was never coming back.

“Hank?”

 _Shit_ , he thought. Sometime in the distant past, Hank was good at not letting emotions show so obviously on his face. 

“Are you all right?”

Damn those eyes. That concerned voice. This tantalizing closeness.

Hank chuckled, hoping it would mask his sad little reverie.

“Yeah, just got lost in thought. No biggie.”

Connor and his goddamn analytical skills weren’t having it, apparently, as Connor tilted his head, scrutinizing Hank’s face and—fucking _hell_ —seeming to lean even closer, LED an intermittent flicker of blue and yellow, yellow, blue.

Despite the cold and the snow crammed under his clothing, Hank felt his neck growing hot.

“Would you like to kiss me, Hank?”

 _Who, me?_ Hank’s brain supplied before promptly attempting to shut down after this very conspicuous and terrifying glitch in the simulation. His answer was obvious, really, and Connor could probably see it in his blood pressure, or dilated pupils, or some other shit. Sure. Of fucking course. Gladly. _Should_ he, though? Because if one thing was certain is that once Connor started talking to— _anyone_ else, really, he would return to his senses and bolt, leaving Hank in the gutter where he belonged.

“Con—” he started softly.

“Because _I_ want you to,” Connor said, pressing himself fully against Hank, letting out an unnecessary exhale.

He was sure Connor would be the death of him. One of these days, his odd comment or other would lead to Hank having a stroke, or a heart attack. What an autopsy report that’d be, though. Cause of death: android unpredictability. Android adorability? Was that even valid?

Hank closed his eyes and sighed.

“Connor.”

“Mm?”

“Connor, hey. Look at me.”

Connor pulled away just enough to direct that piercing gaze of his at Hank again. Hopeful. Almost pleading.

“You don’t want this.”

“I do.”

“You don’t get it—”

And then Connor is shutting him up with a kiss—or what could have been one, were it not a soft press of unmoving inexperienced lips against Hank’s own. Connor draws back, flustered but with an expression of utter defiance.

“You’re mistaken,” he said, and Hank is mortified at the slight hitch in Connor’s voice and how it makes him feel.

Nope.

Deep breath.

“There are tons of other people—” Hank started again.

“Other people can go fuck themselves,” Connor said firmly as Hank spluttered.

“The mouth on you,” Hank said, mock scandalized.

“I learn from the best.” Connor grinned. “For example, Jesus fu—”

Hank rashly decided that is was his turn to shut Connor up, and he did so with a chaste, feather-light kiss, moving his lips only slightly against Connor’s. His heart hammered a staccato beat in his chest, and he ached to deepen the kiss, to draw Connor closer and let his hands explore and—to simply feel more. It took every last ounce of Hank’s resolve to refrain from doing so. It would be wrong. Unfair to Connor. Who could literally have _anyone_ else.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Connor breathed as they pulled apart slightly. “I want _you_.”

He kissed Hank once more, the timid, unsure movements of his lips still making Hank’s eyelids flutter shut and something heavy, almost painful, and at the same time so delightful bloom in his chest. He parted his lips and licked into Connor’s mouth, moving slow in contrast to Connor’s overeager pace; he was a fast learner, however, mimicking Hank’s motions and letting out an honest-to-god whimper as Hank’s hand laced through his snow-covered hair, messing the wet locks up even more. They pulled apart when Hank needed to breathe and, spotting the downright ecstatic expression on Connor’s face, Hank couldn’t help but wonder how the fuck it was _him_ that brought Connor so much joy. He kissed Connor again, and again, getting lost in it, the exhilaration banishing all remnants of cold from his bones, replacing it with an ever-growing electric heat and that softer feeling of warmth, and safety, and comfort.

Hank pulled away yet again, panting slightly, eyes half-lidded, as Connor moved lower, planting feather-light kisses on his neck.

“We should go inside,” he said eventually. “You are at risk of acquiring hypothermia in this cold even if we… persist in… such stimulating activities.”

Hank stared.

“Did you just call making out a ‘stimulating activity?’”

“Isn’t it?” Connor frowned.

Hank simply rolled his eyes and ushered Connor inside.

*

Connor is soft and pliant, pinned by Hank’s weight as they ended up making out on the couch, whatever movie they attempted to watch forgotten. Hank was mesmerized by the faint blue blush coloring Connor’s cheeks, spreading lower to his neck. He chased it with kisses, feather-light and open-mouthed, until he turned more insistent, leaving bite-marks and hickeys on Connor’s pale skin. It retracted in some places, giving way to the white and pale blue of his chassis, and though Connor was obviously flustered at that, Hank found it fascinating, all the more eager to discover _more_.

“This okay?” Hank asked, before making to start unbuttoning Connor’s shirt.

Connor’s eyes were glazed over, filled with want, darkened by it, and his voice was a bit strained as he whispered,

“Of course, Hank. Please…”

They didn’t manage to get to the bedroom, their pent-up desire getting the better of them. Connor was overwhelmed by the novelty, moaning and whimpering as Hank’s hands and mouth explored his body. There were large, rough hands palming his cock through the fabric of his pants, then removing his trousers and underwear, exposing Connor’s erection, which was already leaking small beads of precome. Hank stroked it slowly, gently, gradually increasing the pace as it grew obvious how much Connor enjoyed it. Connor bit his lips and squeezed his eyes shut, bucked his hips into Hank’s hand, moaning his name and begging, bordering on desperate, for release.

“Goddammit, Connor,” Hank muttered, just as Connor felt the first hints of his orgasm. “We should…” Connor opened his eyes and found it impossible to close them again, the image of Hank’s face, framed by his hair, pale eyes turned dark with desire, pushing him closer to the edge. “Lube.”

Connor shook his head no and, barely managing to move his arm without it shaking, tugged Hank’s hand to his asshole, which was already leaking a copious amount thirium-based lubricant.

“Holy shit,” Hank said, awe-struck, teasing Connor’s hole softly with his finger. “Connor you’re—fucking incredible.”

Connor only moaned in answer as Hank pushed one finger in, then another, curling them sharply and eliciting a deeper groan from him as his hips bucked again in search of friction. Hank’s other hand was at the base of his cock, gripping it lightly, moving slowly, too slow to—

“Ha-a-ank,” Connor moaned, “I’m _begging_ you, Hank—”

Hank’s fingers brushed his prostate and it wasn’t long at all before Connor felt himself crest, finally pushed over the edge by Hank fucking him insistently with his fingers, three this time. The moment of release was unexpectedly intense--more intense and more _real_ , it seemed, than anything Connor’s ever experienced, a thousand times stronger even than the initial shock of properly deviating against his instructions. He felt wrecked and taken apart to the point of near-unconsciousness, coming back to himself slowly, strong hands running over his thighs comfortingly, a deep, soothing voice talking him through it.

“Now how was that, Connor?” Hank asked, a smug grin on his face even as he moved uncomfortably, conscious of his own very hard cock demanding attention.

Connor’s processors struggled for a second longer than normal to come up with an intelligible reply.

“Good,” he said, “great.” He sighed, relishing the aftermath of the pleasure and repositioning them on the narrow couch so he was straddling Hank’s thighs, able to start taking Hank’s pants off.

“Hey, you just came, you don’t have to—”

“Androids don’t have a refractory period, Lieutenant,” Connor informed Hank in his standard matter-of-fact tone, senses finally returned to normal. “Now please, shut up and let me ride you. This has been the object of a lot of my… preconstruction scenarios of late.”

That did, in fact, shut Hank up as his brain promptly initiated a shut-down protocol.  Connor got rid of Hank’s pants and boxers and paused as he glimpsed his cock for the first time, its size… impressive, to say the least. He forgot all about his breathing subroutine as he positioned himself over Hank’s cock, guiding it into his asshole, sinking on it slowly as it was difficult to get accustomed to its girth even with sufficient lubrication.

“Fuck,” Connor breathed as Hank chuckled, thrusting tentatively and drawing yet another gasp from him.

Connor sank the last few inches onto Hank’s cock and they both moaned, reveling in this tantalizing new closeness as Hank began moving inside of Connor, the latter meeting him with respective movements of his hips. It took all of Hank’s willpower to go slow in the beginning, a valiant effort to give Connor more time to adjust, yet his resolve didn’t last long, Connor’s eager pants, and moans, and whispered pleas urging Hank to increase his pace, and before long, he was pounding harder into Connor as he chased his release.

Connor came first, and sudden, completely untouched this time, muscles clenching around Hank’s length, the friction nothing short of torturous. Hank lifted Connor’s pliant body and laid him down on the couch again, fucking him from the new angle and, after a few thrusts, he too, came with long, hard spurts deep inside of Connor, the latter seeming so fucked out that Hank was worried for a moment that he caused a short-circuit in his systems.

Hank sank down onto Connor, careful not to pin him too hard under himself, pushing his lips against Connor’s neck and mouthing the words “I love you” onto Connor’s skin, hoping the he was still too out of it to catch that.

“I,” Connor spoke, having come down from the post-orgasm high, “how do people live without having sex all the time, Hank?”

“Goddamn, Connor.” Hank let out a laugh. “Please don’t tell me you’re gonna jump me every chance you get now at the precinct.”

Connor ducked his head into the nape of Hank’s neck, smiling.

“Scout’s honor.” Hank raised an eyebrow. “So what if I was never a scout?”

“Take pity on an old man.”

“You’re middle-aged.”

“Not the point.”

“I solemnly swear not to,” Connor conceded, though his mischief-laced grin implied otherwise. He chanced a soft, lingering kiss that made Hank’s chest buzz with that cozy feeling of _safe_ and _happy_ all over again. “Thank you, Hank,” Connor said, warm brown eyes gazing into Hank’s like he’s the fucking center of Connor’s universe. “This day… is—it’s perfect.”

“This is the first Christmas you’ve ever had and you have no frame of reference,” Hank deadpanned, even as he saw the genuine gratitude in Connor’s eyes.

Even as he hoped—as he _promised_ himself—that it was the first one of many.

**Author's Note:**

> hhhhh, I wanna draw a fanart of Hank playing guitar for Connor x) and I just might...
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> find me on  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/Lou_Random)  
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> 


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